69 Hues of Christmas: Santa and Elrond's Roll in the Sleigh
by BusterManwomb
Summary: In the grim darkness of the 42nd millenium, a team of war scholars scouring the irradiated wastes of Holy Terra uncover remarkably intact historical documents in a surviving archive, protected in the very shadow of the palace of the Emperor of Mankind. Cross Referencing and reconstruction reveal a truth of pre-imperial Terra that the Imperium of Man may not be ready to face.
1. Chapter 1

About the author:

Best known for producing the Blockbuster podcast _Chuds n Spuds_, where they spend forty five minutes every week licking ghost peppers and arguing that potato salad is a citrus fruit, Buster Manwomb had long since retired before finally learning the difference between producing a podcast and verbally abusing the organic bananas in a Saskatoon Co-op.

Make like one of Immortan Joe's war boyz and WITNESS them on Twitter at Bustermanwomb.

Chapter One: Funforeseen consequences

Christmas never truly recovered from the cataclysm known as "Starbucks making their holiday cups plain red back in 2015". War scholars refer to it as the deciding campaign in the war on Christmas. Seemingly overnight, the north pole, headquarters of the Christmas forces got more fucked up than the sex-face of a Bioware character. Infrastructure melted away. Workshops conveniently filled with the elves threatening to unionize burned down. Entire warehouses of toys crumbled away as if some FUCKING idiot decided it was a good idea to make all the warehouses out of gingerbread! Yes, I'm fucking looking at you, Tingles!

Anyway, Santa, the leader of Christmas, found that the elf population under his control had been halved. Outsourcing to third world hellholes like China and Flint, Michigan kept his operations above water, but they needed to recoup their numbers fast if the more labour-intensive divisions were to keep up with demand.

Elrond had fallen on hard times after he found out he wasn't needed for nearly as much of The Hobbit 3 as he'd banked on. He accepted that downsizing from his lofty title of Lord of Rivendell was an inescapable reality, but he struggled to accept that his best prospect as an elf was at the North Pole assembling 'Unruly Drake' brand dildos: the one product whose expectations were too high for a Flint sweat shop to meet.

Papa elf was walking along the workshop aisle with a face of constant disappointment, like an incel who shoved a lemon up his ass every time a date checked his twitter and canceled. Every time he walked past an elf at risk of being crushed to death, should the pile of dildos they sculpted fall upon them, he would nod and move on. Halfway down he saw an elf try to leave to take a bathroom break before being gunned down by the sniper in the guard tower. Don't worry, elves are supposedly pretty immortal; they only want to torment the poor little bastard, not affect his productivity.

Papa Elf stopped at Elrond's table, his face not unlike that of George Castanza's father after hearing his son say he wants to become a ventriloquist. He pulled out a measuring band and held it against Elrond's dildo pile.

"Elrond." Papa elf declared loudly enough for the other workers to hear. Seeing other workers get chastized or shot were the only things that broke up the monotony. "The height of your pile of self-ejaculating, triple-rippled SIR Unicocktopussies is only 'substantial'."

"Yes." Elrond declared.

"It should be at 'hazardous' already! How many have you made today?"

"The elves of Rivendell were craftsmen of legendary renown." Elrond explained with grace and duty. "Our value was upon the quality of our work, not the speed if it."

Papa Elf whistled. A red dot fixated on Elrond's chest from the tinsel-adorned sniper tower.

"Eighty Five." Elrond said, admirably attempting to mask his shame.

The workshop went silent.

"That's… four hundred and twenty behind quota." Papa elf said, scribbling a crosshair over Elrond's name in red ink.

One foolishly dank elf in the background broke the silence by yelling "Ha ha! _Blaze_ it!" Before getting their innards pulped by the sniper.

"This isn't acceptable behavior, Elrond." Papa Elf said gravely. "If you were working for Amazon, you would have already lost most of your internal organs to recoup profits. Do better."

"Oh, why do you not just say it?" Elrond asked defeatedly. "I'm the worst toy maker in the world. I'm a cotton-headed ninny muggins!"

Every elf within earshot gasped in a manner similar to if a gaggle of nuns entered a church to see someone fellating a crucifix. The hand of Papa Elf flew through the air, colliding with Elrond's cheek in the most stinging and vindictive of bitch slaps.

"I don't ever want to hear that filthy fucking language out of your filthy fucking mouth, you son of a bitch!" Papa Elf screamed as the bitch-slapped Elrond flew to the ground, his exact state of consciousness a matter of debate. Two very large elves lumbered down the aisles, picking Elrond up by his dainty shoulders. "Take this son of a bitch to…. _the shelf."_

Had Elrond been in a state permitting conscious movement, he likely would have been pleading, or crying, or incomprehensibly screaming, as most other elves are when they're assigned-nay damned- to the shelves.


	2. Chapter 2

About the Author:

Buster Manwomb likes three things. Mustard Pickles, Mustard Pickles but for sexual reasons, and not being told they resemble a microwaved Real Doll of Uncle Vernon.

Chapter 2: BEARry Fistmas

Elrond woke up to the taste of blood in his mouth and the realization that his outfit had been changed from the unflattering workshop uniform to the even more humiliating Elf of the Shelf outfit.

Elrond tried to leave but was punched in the gut by two elves in ushankas and trenchcoats guarding the door. "Quiet" one elf hissed, his accent thick and slavic, like if Nike sold coffee creamer. "If you do not satisfy, we are all dead."

Elrond went back to the shelf after the elves pulled AR 15s out of their butts and pointed them at him.

The room looked part bedroom and part garage. A large circular platform about twenty feet wide was elevated about six inches above the ground. In the middle of it was Santa's Sleigh.

"Oh Fuck!" Elrond thought with the elvish grace "what in the dry spiced fuck is happening?!"

Then the door.

It opened.

And Mr and Mrs Claus rolled through the doors making out, their limbs becoming lost in each other's rolls of fat as they tore more and more clothes off. Moist sounds, like if a canada goose was dipped in custard and fed an Arby's sandwich, filled the air as their tongues wrestled in a ferocious game of tonsil hockey. In seconds Santa had (We here at the Manwomb D̶u̶m̶p̶s̶t̶e̶r̶

Family of w̶o̶l̶v̶e̶s̶ megacorporations we always look for ways to move towards a better future, and in one of those inflections decided that Mrs Claus' only label being a glorified declaration of her marital status is an artifact of archaic 20th century thinking, and thus propose we piss off just about everyone by shirking this artifact unto the dust and collectively agreeing that Mrs Claus' name be) Ahmed to the table. Ahmed cooed sensually as Santa kissed down her wrinkled hide down to her ovaries, as which point Santa commenced the full penetration.

It looked, sounded, and smelled like someone glued glitter to two rotten pears and repeatedly squeezed them together, if whoever was handling the pears sounded like two moany old fat people when she breathed.

Elrond was sweating like a president watching impeachment proceedings as the Clauses rubbed the tips of their sexual organs together. He always had a deep, wet crush for Santa. From the moment he sat in the hiring office, and looked upon the framed vintage cola ad featuring santa, he had fallen powerfully and hopelessly in lust.

It was a force over him more hopelessly powerful than any ring of power when he saw that rotund wubbly belly, those pudgy yet wrinkled cheeks, those ashy grey eyes of an immortal who has seen the madness of eternity and yawned, those shiny puckered lips of an old man who has clearly mastered the art of tonguing a good dick, those youthful yet worn hands well learned in the arts of toymaking warfare and pub fighting confused turks, and his pretty boots, Elrond knew that he would get at least part of that wrinkled holiday icon inside his butt.

He sweated profusely as the Claus' began to gnaw upon each other, the room becoming thick with sweat that smelled of Albany Steamed Hams. He struggled to make himself still, like any good and surviving Elf on the Shelf. No…. No he couldnt. It was too great to resist. His penis yearned for friction. He had to shlub the bub!

And hot sweet fuck _did _he shlub the bub. With a firm hand and shrieky gusto he did shlub the bub. Had his dinkie been made of 1990s play doh, he would have shlubbed his bub to combustion!

At Santa's moment of climax, Elrond threw his head back and emitted a sound that dedicated scientists would prove perfectly replicated the sound of a thousand octopi ass fucking eight thousand institutionalized neo nazis. His eyes firmly shut the whole time, he opened them to see a sarcastically amused santa staring at him from inches away, unblinking.

"And what's your name, you greasy thighed lil slut?"

"E-Elrond sir." Elrond answered, his pale dingus puckering in shame.

"It looks like you're here to help with the Christmas!" Santa laughed, the sound of raw meat tearing echoing as his retinas tore themselves into narrow slits. "A rosy-lipped young motherfucker like you is exactly what I need to help me fulfill my duties! Now _get in the sleigh._"

Totally ignorant of the number of teeth falling out of Santa's mouth with every word, Elrond pranched to the sleigh on the elevated platform with a fabulously gay glee. First he got to watch the Clauses partake of each others naughty bits in ways that would make the most open-minded of Cirque Du Soleil performers tilt their heads in confusion, now he gets to help Santa deliver presents!

He climbed on to the sled. Elrond had barely any time to wonder why the sleigh was made of blood-stained stone when a _startlingly_ strong Ahmed Claus pinned Elrond down, fastening Elrond to the corners with the very same candy cane handcuffs Santa used when he did the thing she liked. "There there, dearie." She said in a soft, comforting voice. "Everything is going to be over soon."


	3. Chapter 3

About the author

Buster Manwomb is fucking livid that of all the things they've done, it took rewriting the Star Spangled Banner into an instructional guide for safe gay sex to be put onto an FBI watchlist.

Seriously? Not the accidental cannibalism? The purposeful cannibalism? The noodle incident? Fuuuuck you.

Chapter 3: The Wreckoning

Elrond felt two items land dully on his chest. He opened his eyes amidst the struggle and found his interest demanded by the black hollow voids where Ahmed's eyes used to be, leaking a deep red fluid far too curdled and viscous to be human blood. Elrond looked down. Behind a pair of glass eyeballs rolling gently off his writhing chest, Elrond saw Santa chain his legs down. What teeth remained in his mouth splintered as dozens of serrated sharklike teeth squeezed into their place. His eyes tripled in size, and the sound of splintering bone accompanied the swelling of his fingers on his right hand, from the nails of which bloody tentacles emerged. His left arm split from the elbow, making way for several large tentacles replacing his whole forearm and hand.

As Ahmed tore off her garments, a gash split open in her throat, widening along her torso down to where the vagina would be on a human. The flesh tugged apart, revealing a swirling vortex of teeth, at the center of which lay the face of a baby, its skin the texture of raw chicken.

"Acolytes!" Santa called to the air. The bodyguards opened the door and fourteen elves in heavy hooded garb surrounded the platform in a circle. "Begin… the christmas!"

The seven elves in red robes leaned forward. Worryingly girthly masses of oily metal cables slid from their mouths onto the ground. Animated tendrils split from the ends and writhed along the surface of the platform, fitting into tiny ports, illuminating a blood red septagram at which the sleigh rested in the centre of.

"Bring forth the sacrifice of pure blood!" Ahmed called out, an unsettling warble and an unnatural volume to her voice. The seven elves in green robes stood in the spikes of the septagram, presenting knives as rudolph was hung upside down and place above Elrond on the altar.

Elrond was rock hard, and for an elf that is so old that he kicks himself in the balls everytime he taps his shoes in a bathrobe, that meant something. "Oh yes, Santa senpai! Fill me up! Stuff me!"

"Blood for the blood god!" Santa roared, grabbing rudolph's neck.

"Blood for the blood god!" The elves in green robes screamed in turn, unsheathing vicious gnarled blades of pitch black metal and falling upon them.

Santa plunged Rudolph's antlers into the soft of Elrond's abdomen. Blood erupted from the sacrificed elves like sanguine flames, merging into a moist vortex above Elrond before splitting into tendrils and forcing themselves into his puncture wounds as Santa removed rudolph, casting him aside.

Elrond felt like he had a tummy ache before his chest exploded. An unhealthy maelstrom of blood and fire erupted from his chest cavity, feeding a warp portal into the realm of chaos.

Now, Elrond rolled a nat 20 for recovery, and had natural resistance to mortal wounds, so he lived witness two tentacles shoot from the portal and shoot up the rectal regions of Santa and Ahmed. Santa's navel sunk inward as a fiery orange eye popped in its place, taking up the bulk of Santa's torso.

A betentacled, seprentine mass followed suit, tugging the first two tentacles to its front, using Santa as its eye, and Ahmed as its mouth.

"Time for the ritual of CHRISTMAS!" The eldritch mass screamed. "Show me all the naughty little boys and girls!"

Holograms of millions of young children doing the sort of menial shit they'd get sent to their room for surrounded the platform. The chaos demon screamed as he began to absorb the life force of the children, and indoctrinate them into his chaos army.

Then a blinding white light filled the room, and the EMPEROR OF MANKIND was there!

"Cease thine shit, foul wretch of the warp!" The EMPEROR OF MANKIND declared, cleaving apart the left and right halves of each elf which a single swipe of his MIGHTY SWORD. "Return, wretched being, to your realm of vicious chaos!"

And then did the EMPEROR OF MANKIND did cleave the being into thousands of tiny pieces, dicing its jolly appendages into hideous jiggly bits.

"Oh dearest sticky fuck, thank you!" Elrond said. "My dainty elvish chub was dangerously close to deflating!"

"I have a gift for you!" The EMPEROR OF MANKIND declared.

"Oh wow, really?" Elrond said, still chained to the sleigh.

"Yes: Death!" The EMPEROR OF MANKIND declared, obliterating Elrond.

And so Elrond was obliterated, and spared the horrible fate of an eternity of corruption by Chaos.

"The death ritual of Christmas is no more!" The EMPEROR OF MANKIND declared in a manner so majestic that despite the fact that nobody was present, all of mankind had heard and internalized it. "Instead, I declare it be replaced with a ritual of gift-giving, commemorating my gift of protection from the warp and the forces, for this dead horny elfman and all of mankind! MY WORD IS LAW!"

"So!" war scholar Randomnus Namicus declared. "Based on a series of surviving documents found on Holy Terra, we have determined this to be the basis of a popular pre-Imperium holiday known as 'exmas'!"

Randomnus' boss Jimbob Grimdark the 10,353rd stared blankly at Randomnus. "You know, Horus the Heretic was pretty Heretical. But _this…_ This is some fucking heresy."

The very uttering of the word 'heresy' ticked off an inquisitor in orbit, who immediately blew up the whole planet. You know, FOR THE EMPEROR or something.

THE END

Partake of thine holidays of choice. Enjoy them and consume the eggiest of nogs. Buster manwomb commands it, unless you're allergic.


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